


Oh Captain, My Captain

by groundyonly



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilt, Hurt, d'Artagnan Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundyonly/pseuds/groundyonly
Summary: Set between episodes 9 and 10 of season 3, there was something I felt never got addressed.
Includes a healthy dose of brotherhood and sadness.





	

“No one blames her."  
"That never matters," said Alec. "Not when you blame yourself.”   
― Cassandra Clare, City of Lost Souls

* TM * TM * TM *

The initial shock had worn off, replaced now by a full, throbbing ache that roared through their bodies and battered their souls. They had performed their duties afterward like the dead still walking: checking that there were no remaining enemies. Confirming the Duke of Lorraine was dead. Organizing a cart to bring Minister Tréville— _Captain Tréville_ —back to Paris.

As the miles passed, it slowly registered in the mind of Aramis that d’Artagnan looked something more than solely grieving in his saddle: his left shoulder rose high above his right; his right hand was loosely fisted, but in his lap, not controlling the reins of his horse as they would normally; and his head bowed and his eyes squeezed shut often, something that could be taken for grief, if not for the tight hitch in breathing and the fierce lip-biting that accompanied the move, and the experience Aramis had in spotting the Gascon’s attempts to hide discomfort.

The others hadn’t noticed the gradual changes in the young man’s posture and color; each was too lost in his own misery to see d’Artagnan’s deterioration. Porthos, who had raced off with the young king, had quickly gotten word of the tragedy that had befallen their leader, and had thundered back as soon as possible to try and deny the rumors, and then to join the somber escorts on Tréville’s final journey home when he could not refute the truth of them. Now, he stared only at his horse’s mane, trusting the animal to walk where it should, while he thought, and thought, about the future, and the past. 

Athos sat upright in his saddle, jaw clenched, fists gripping the reins of his horse so tightly his leather gloves stretched near to tearing. His eyes were locked on the path ahead. What he saw was not in front of him. He could not look to his right, down into the cart he was riding alongside. He could not bear to see the canvas stretched across the back of it, knowing who lay beneath it, unseeing, unknowing, never more to clamp a hand on the musketeer’s shoulder in reassurance. Never again to accept the loyalty, in some cases worshipping admiration, of the regiment. 

Aramis himself was aware of his own shaking, his feeling of being in a not-quite-real reality, and he wished nothing more than to find that he had been dreaming and to wake up in his bed, ready to fight again, ready to take orders from Tréville, from anyone, as long as the Minister did not let his eyes roll back into his head and die as he did, in the sharpshooter’s lap.

Now, watching d’Artagnan, Aramis vaguely remembered the young man breathing shallowly in fear as he raced to Tréville’s side. _“No,”_ he’d whispered. But when the lad’s single word of prayer and denial had gone unheeded and Tréville’s breathing stilled, Aramis now could see in his mind’s eye how d’Artagnan’s hand had flown to his mouth, how his eyes had widened, how he fell back from kneeling, his legs too shaky too hold him up in the face of this horror. And he had stayed that way for ever so long—they _all_ had stayed, unable to comprehend how to move on, for ever so long—until the world slipped back into place, and they had to face the unbearable future, so irreversibly changed forever.

When they rose from their vigil of disbelief, Aramis recalled that d’Artagnan seemed unsteady, nearly falling back to his knees as he stood. But then Aramis himself had felt as if he might do the same; none of them was steady now. Then there were other things to concern themselves with, and even more things to avoid, and so he gave it no second thought. Now, from a short distance behind the Gascon, he tried to see if there was any telltale sign of a problem that he may have missed, but to be sure he would have to ride right alongside d’Artagnan, and moving his horse any faster at the moment seemed almost sacrilege. D’Artagnan was upright, if not comfortable; if there were problems, they would have to wait.

The small group of travelers came to a main street, and instinctively they slowed as one. Athos looked at the driver of the cart. “To the palace,” he instructed simply. “The Minister will be attended to there.”

The driver nodded and they moved onward, no one feeling a need to say anything at all. Curious eyes, sometimes knowing ones, watched as they passed. But no one said anything to them, nor did the travelers offer any words, or even meet anyone’s eyes.

When they reached the palace entrance, the cart stopped, and the musketeers and the small group traveling with them brought their horses to a standstill. Some dismounted or moved to fulfill their duties in the aftermath, but the Inseparables and d’Artagnan didn’t follow suit. How could they leave Tréville alone?

As though understanding their unreasonable reasoning, one of the men whose horse had been in the rear of the party came up alongside the cart and said quietly, “I’ll fetch the physician.” Then he slipped away, leaving the musketeers alone with the driver of the cart, and their slain leader. Still, the foursome did not move, or even speak.

With their horses now very close, Aramis, though still feeling oddly unlike himself, decided to take this moment to check on d’Artagnan. The younger man had said close to nothing on the journey, and any words he did speak were soft and clipped. All quite natural, Aramis knew. And yet…

He ran his eyes over d’Artagnan’s clothing. A bit dirty—which was to be expected—but nothing else. But wait—was that a slice in the back of his jerkin, up near his right shoulder? Or was the dark material deceiving him? It would make sense, he considered, as he narrowed his eyes to try and confirm his suspicions; the posture and the favoring of the right side supported the idea. The thick clothing might be concealing an injury, and heaven knew the Gascon was never one to speak up about those things.

He was about to screw up the courage to break the thick silence when the man who’d disappeared into the palace came back out, with another man whom Aramis recognized as the royal physician, and two others. The doctor approached the musketeers. His face solemn, he paused before turning to the cart. “Thank you for bringing him home, gentlemen,” he said, in a voice that made Aramis’s heart move into his throat; the man clearly felt the enormity of the tragedy. But then, Aramis thought, he had just witnessed the loss of his most important patient, as well. Two, in such a short span of time. Two, around whom the musketeers’ lives had revolved. And now they were both gone. It was as dizzying as it was awful.

“We need to get him inside,” the physician said. He nodded to the men who had accompanied him outside, and the two moved in to begin the transfer.

“I’ll do it,” d’Artagnan declared suddenly. Before anyone had a chance to react, he was off his horse. His heart suddenly showing on his face, he added quietly, “It should be people who knew him.”

Aramis swallowed. _Heart over head,_ he thought automatically. He had heard Athos say that of the young man so many times.

Then Athos dismounted. “I will help as well.”

The Captain and the Gascon exchanged a long look, then moved toward the back of the cart. Without another word, Aramis and Porthos also got off their horses and joined them. D’Artagnan got there first and reached out, putting his hands on the poles of the makeshift stretcher that had been fashioned to bring Tréville back to Paris. But when he was about to pull the carrier out, he stopped. The others watched as his hands, still tight on the poles that jutted out from the canvas, began to shake, and the musketeer bowed his head, his face growing pale, his breathing shallow and audible. When it became clear that he was not willing, or perhaps able, to continue, Athos came up beside him, putting his hand over one of d’Artagnan’s. The younger man looked at it.

“I will help,” is all Athos said.

The words broke d’Artagnan’s trance and he looked at his brother. Seeing his own heartbreak reflected in Athos’s eyes, he nodded once, and the pair slowly, reverently, drew the stretcher carrying the Tréville’s body out of the cart. Porthos and Aramis moved to take one end, as Athos and d’Artagnan held the other, and as one, they bore his body inside.

* TM * TM * TM *

The ride back to the garrison was as somber as the trip into Paris, though the four musketeers now occasionally looked at each other or the world around them. Though they had been here only hours before, it now seemed irrevocably changed somehow, and none of them could find words to speak of it.

When they got to their destination, Aramis again took note of d’Artagnan. The Gascon had nearly lost his solid grip on the stretcher once or twice back at the Louvre, but then, none of them had been steady. Still, the sweat beading on d’Artagnan’s brow and his renewed favoring of his right side had not gone unnoticed by the medic.

D’Artagnan slipped off his saddle, greyer and yet paler than Aramis could ever remember seeing him—no, that wasn’t correct, he amended; years ago, when the barely-grown Gascon had stormed into the garrison, accusing Athos of murdering his father in cold blood, he had looked ashen and drawn. And when he finally, invariably, broke down after clearing Athos of the crime and discovering that he could now simply focus on the pain of his loss, d’Artagnan had been deathly pale, frighteningly grey, and in his unburdened grief did not eat for days without prompting. He looked like that now, Aramis realized, but with one difference: now, he was also totally turned inward, and unsteady on his feet. The marksman noticed he reached for the horse’s reins with his left hand instead of his natural right, and at one point, he actually stumbled, prompting Aramis to rush in and take his arm.

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan said predictably, at the same time that Aramis said, “Time to check you over.”

“I don’t need looking over,” d’Artagnan retorted, anger obviously attempting, unsuccessfully, to mask heartbreak, and pulling his arm away.

By this time, Porthos and Athos had seen what was transpiring and came to them. “Humor us,” Porthos said gruffly, glancing at Aramis to try and figure out what the man had seen that he had not.

D’Artagnan started to protest, but when he looked at his final hope, he saw that he was on his own. Athos just raised an eyebrow at him. “Humor us.”

* TM * TM * TM *

Firm about not wanting Constance involved, d’Artagnan now sat on the edge of the bed in Athos’s rooms. He ground out a noisy breath through his teeth when Aramis started drawing stubborn fibers of his shirt away from the bloody, neglected wound on his back. Porthos was watching, but half turned away, scrunching up his face in distaste at the mess. Athos just frowned and looked at Aramis, who met his eyes but said nothing before looking down at his patient. “Sorry,” Aramis apologized softly as d’Artagnan tried to school his breathing back to normal. “How did this happen?”

D’Artagnan just shook his head as air pushed through his teeth and nose. 

“No matter,” Aramis said. D’Artagnan flinched away as Aramis touched the area again. “It’s deep. It will require stitching.” He glanced at the shirt and jerkin on the bed. “I’m sure Porthos will stitch up your clothes as well as I can stitch up your back.”

“Doesn’t he have a wife now?” Porthos quipped. But thanks to the tenor of the day, the comment held none of his usual cheekiness. Realizing that, he shrugged, showing he was only trying to take the Gascon’s attention away from his discomfort. “I’ll make sure it gets done,” he said solemnly.

“How are the fingers on your right hand?” Aramis asked, suspecting that he already knew the answer.

“A little numb,” d’Artagnan answered curtly.

Aramis nodded. He’d learned a bit about how the nerves in one part of the body affected another part, and remembered how d’Artagnan had seemed clumsy with that hand when dealing with his horse, and even with Tréville’s stretcher. He hoped that the healing of his back would mean his sword hand improved as well. Reaching for his sewing equipment, he said, “Athos, get him some wine.” 

Athos turned to find the bottle and a glass. He poured, held out the glass to the Gascon. 

But d’Artagnan shook his head. “I don’t need it,” he said shortly.

“You will,” countered Athos.

“I don’t need it,” d’Artagnan repeated more forcefully.

Athos shrugged, then, there being no table big enough in the room, Aramis had d’Artagnan lie flat on his stomach on the bed, which the young man did with a little awkwardness but no hesitation. Carefully, delicately, Aramis took the untouched glass of wine, and a cloth from the nearby table. He poured a generous amount of wine on the cloth. “This is going to hurt,” he said to d’Artagnan.

But d’Artagnan was undeterred. “Do it,” he said, almost angrily.

Aramis did as he was told, and touched the soaking cloth to the wound. D’Artagnan clenched his teeth together to try and stop the sound of pain erupting from his throat from filling the room. He bucked slightly on the bed.

Aramis stopped. “Go on,” d’Artagnan urged, irritated. 

Aramis looked at Athos; the senior musketeer just said, “It won’t be the first time wine has spilled on this bed.”

The medic let out a sigh of resignation, then nodded toward Porthos, who positioned himself at d’Artagnan’s feet, as Athos moved to the young man’s head to grip his upper arms. This time, Aramis poured some wine directly from the glass onto the wound. D’Artagnan cried out more forcefully, and he jerked against the torture, settling after a moment. Athos gently stroked the Gascon’s damp hair away from his face. 

“One more time, d’Artagnan,” Aramis warned him. 

The men all prepared for the cleansing. It elicited a stronger and more violent reaction this time, but d’Artagnan’s friends did not relent, and when he became limp, the pain exhausting him, he panted, “Now _stitch.”_

Having expected him to be unconscious by now, Aramis raised his eyebrows in surprise, then went to work. Aside from the first few jolts and grimaces that made Aramis slow his own moves, things went smoothly, and although d’Artagnan stayed tense, he stopped instinctively trying to get away. Porthos and Athos released their iron grips, but stayed nearby. When the medic finished and then dressed the wound, he stepped back. D’Artagnan could rest now. He would need it, Aramis thought; they would be back on duty very soon, and he had no doubt d’Artagnan would insist on joining them.

Athos, Aramis, and Porthos were taken aback when d’Artagnan started to sit up. “Now we get Grimaud,” he said hoarsely, his head hanging low. He coughed, then winced, still trying to catch his breath. His right arm lay limp on his lap, his left hand braced on his thigh to keep him upright.

“I don’t think so,” Porthos said, shaking his head. 

D’Artagnan’s expression hardened as he lifted his head towards the musketeer. “He’s _out there,”_ he practically spat, then, still weak from pain, he lowered his head again.

“And we don’t know where,” Aramis added. 

At this, d’Artagnan pushed himself to stand, took a moment to visibly balance himself, and said, “So we’ll find him.”

“We’ll soon be needed at the palace,” Athos countered calmly. “We’d best not be away when they are ready for us.”

Aramis nodded. “And at the moment, you need to rest.”

D’Artagnan threw an angry look at Athos, his features softening as his eyes filled with tears that did not fall. He swallowed, then said softly, “I’ll rest when I’m dead.” Then he pushed past Aramis with his good arm to move quickly but unsteadily out of the room.

“D’Artagnan,” called Porthos. But he was gone. “We’d better go after him.”

“I’ll go,” Athos said simply. He glanced at the bed. “You can clean up the wine.”

* TM * TM * TM *

Athos didn’t have to go far to find d’Artagnan. The young man had made it only a few _toises_ from the apartment and was leaning with his left shoulder against the side of an adjoining building, his head also leaning on it, but tilted back as though looking at the sky, though his eyes were closed. His right arm, though raised to his stomach to protect the new stitches, nonetheless appeared limp and ineffective.

“You aren’t decent,” the Captain said from behind him finally, when it became apparent that d’Artagnan either didn’t know he was there or was choosing not to acknowledge him. He held out one of his own shirts that he’d grabbed on the way out. “Put this on.”

For a brief moment, Athos wondered if d’Artagnan had even heard him, but then the young man opened his eyes and heaved a short sigh. Still keeping his right arm still, he turned and reached out to accept the offering. “Thank you,” he said briefly, fumbling with his left hand to try and get the shirt positioned in such a way that he could pull it over his head. When couldn’t manage, he huffed out another, this time exasperated, sigh and then let his body fall against the wall again, pulling away quickly and resettling when the jarring made the pain spike in his back.

Athos said nothing. D’Artagnan once again turned his face to the sky, then finally lowered his head and simply stared at the world in front of him, though it was clear that he was not seeing it. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve questioned my suitability to be a musketeer,” d’Artagnan said softly. “When I’ve wondered what I was doing in the company of fine soldiers like you, Porthos, and Aramis. But today…” The words trailed off and he bowed his head, the tears that had appeared earlier returning, threatening even more boldly to fall. “Today, I wish I had listened to those doubts.”

Athos felt a fresh twinge of sadness. So much sorrow already today, and now self-doubt was about to be piled on top of it. He didn’t want it to happen. “D’Artagnan—”

“It was my duty to safeguard the King. I hid with him underneath a laundry house when Grimaud came after us,” d’Artagnan explained quietly. “He was walking around, sticking his sword through the floorboards, thinking he might find us. We were doing well, he was walking away; I could _hear_ him. Then something happened, and he came back. And when he pushed his sword into my back, I couldn’t keep silent. I tried, but _I couldn’t keep silent!”_

So that was where the injury came from; another thing to hold against Grimaud, as if the list needed to be any longer. The stubbornness when being treated by Aramis now made sense, Athos realized: d’Artagnan was angry at himself, and the pain was punishment. _Don’t do this,_ Athos pleaded with d’Artagnan soundlessly. 

“You’re all right, of course,” d’Artagnan said now, his voice nearly a whisper: “going after Grimaud, it won’t help. Not now.” 

He paused, shook his head. Then he tightened his grip around the shirt in his hand and stared ahead at nothing, and everything. His jaw muscles clenched. “He fired the shot,” the Gascon continued more loudly, his tone heavy with irony, and self-loathing; “but it’s my fault he had the opportunity.”

Athos’s heart clenched. _No, d’Artagnan. Not this._ “D’Artagnan, you cannot—”

“It’s _true,_ Athos!” d’Artagnan cried, barely holding onto his composure. “Grimaud was at that base camp because I could not protect the King. The most important duty I have perhaps ever had, and I failed. _I failed!”_

“We’re not going to do this,” Athos said gently. The downward spiral of d’Artagnan’s psyche was almost hypnotic in its intensity, and it was breaking both their hearts. 

“If I had been the musketeer that I should be—” 

“We’re not going to do this.”

“—if one of you had been entrusted with the King’s safety, he would never have faced that danger, and Tréville would be ali—”

_“We’re not going to do this!”_

The shock of the shouted words stopped d’Artagnan, and he stood perfectly still, staring at the ground. His pale face was drawn in sadness and, Athos guessed, discomfort. Athos dropped his voice to a mere murmur. “D’Artagnan. You are not to blame for Tréville’s death. Grimaud is the one who plotted with Gaston. Grimaud is the one who would stop at nothing to see the King dead. Grimaud is the evil one.” The words of the senior musketeer seemed to have no effect. “D’Artagnan. _D’Artagnan,”_ Athos repeated, laying his hand on his brother’s arm and shaking it to break him from his trance. It worked; d’Artagnan turned to him, though when their eyes met, the Gascon’s expression was closed. “We are soldiers. We fight battles. Some we win. Some we lose. Do you think that every lost battle is the fault of an individual soldier?”

D’Artagnan’s stone-faced exterior began to crumble. His eyes softened, began to glisten more strongly. “No,” he whispered through a shallow breath.

“This war is bigger than all of us,” Athos said. “Tréville knew that. You are not to blame, d’Artagnan, any more than the moon is to blame for the sun setting at the end of the day.” He watched as the long-threatened tears finally escaped, rolling unbidden, down the young man’s face, through the vacant stare that the Captain knew was replaying the unspeakable events of the day, perhaps even mixing with that black day, now years ago, when he lost his own father, and carried a guilt that never completely went away.

Athos squeezed d’Artagnan’s arm, gently now. “Come; we need to drink. It has been a day to forget.”

D’Artagnan sniffed once, then nodded briefly. “Help me with my shirt,” he said roughly. He held the garment out awkwardly to Athos, who took it and, keeping d’Artagnan’s wounded back as cushioned as possible, helped him get it over his head and his arms through the sleeves.

“It’s big,” d’Artagnan observed. A weak attempt to pull himself away from his dark thoughts.

“You may grow into it one day,” Athos replied.

“A Captain’s shirt? I don’t think so,” the Gascon quipped, as the smallest touch of bitterness crept back into his tone.

“Don’t be so sure,” Athos warned him. D’Artagnan blinked, stunned at the suggestion. He looked at Athos, his eyes full of doubt, and questions. Athos grew serious. “Great things await you, d’Artagnan. I have known this almost since the day we met. And you have done _nothing_ to convince me otherwise, and everything to convince me it is so.”

D’Artagnan said nothing for a moment, clearly conflicted, staring hard at Athos as though trying to absorb his resolve. “Where’s that wine?” he asked at last, visibly forcing himself away from the bad thoughts, at least for a moment. “My back has had a taste; now I’d like some in my mouth.”

Athos nodded. “The more, the better.”

“Not so much you can’t function,” d’Artagnan countered with the tiniest bit of cheek. “We will have duties to carry out later.”

Athos let a smile curl up onto his lips. “See? You’re acting like a Captain already.”

D’Artagnan groaned and started walking back to Athos’s quarters. Athos joined him. “When did I get so level-headed?”

“Maybe it won’t last.”

“I can only hope.” D’Artagnan stopped, looked at his former mentor and forever brother. Athos was once again taken by the emotion and the trust in the young man’s eyes. “I’ll make you proud, Athos.”

Athos smiled softly, the tension he had been feeling slipping away. “You already do,” he answered. The smile disappeared. “We’re going to win this war, d’Artagnan,” he promised. “For Tréville.” 

D’Artagnan nodded, and the light returned to his eyes at last. “For Tréville. And for France.”

And they returned to their brothers, together.


End file.
